


Not Never Again

by CupcakeGirlA



Series: Not Never and Always [1]
Category: Diving RPF, Olympics RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like you’re in perpetual free-fall, midway through a dive off the platform, gravity dragging you down down down toward the water so fast the world rushes past in a dizzying blur. All you can see, all you can focus on is Nick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Never Again

You don’t know how you ended up this way, tangled up with Nick. Again. You’d sworn after the first time that it would never happen a second time. Then you’d sworn it would never happen a third. You’d vowed that you weren’t THAT way. That you’d never make that mistake a, what?, fourth time. You were wrong. Because here you are, breaking your promise, and in this moment you don’t even CARE.

He’s got you pressed into the mattress of your tiny dorm room bed, and you think idly that you’re so glad they only sent five male divers to represent the USA, and that you’d landed the single. It’ll make things easier in the morning. But again, the thought flies through your head too fast for you to stop and analyze it. For now it’s like you’re in perpetual free-fall, midway through a dive off the platform, gravity dragging you down down down toward the water so fast the world rushes past in a dizzying blur. All you can see, all you can focus on is Nick. 

You’re a diver. Your body aches all the time. Your wrists, your shoulders, your back and neck. After three rounds of competition over the last 48 hours, after constantly hurling yourself off the 10m platform and hitting the water at 35 mph, your whole body creaks and cries out for rest, and you actually long for an ice bath. Just to make your body numb, even if only for a few moments. But for now that pain is irrelevant. Because Nick’s mouth is on your neck, his right hand on your dick, his other palm sliding down the ridges of your abs and making you cry out with want. In this moment you feel nothing but him.

“Nick,” you plead, “please!” and you don’t care that you’re begging. That you’re calling out to this man lying on top of you, asking for anything and everything he’s willing to give you. All you have is want and need. He grins against your shoulder, and you know him well enough, this friend/teammate/partner/rival of yours, to hear the amusement in the huff of his breath against your collarbone. His hips pin your thighs to the bed, and you think you could probably flip him if you really tried, never mind that he’s taller than you. He must read your mind, he’s entirely too good at that it’s part of why you work together so well, because he lets go of your dick and suddenly his hands are pressing your shoulders harshly to the bed. You cry out at the sudden pressure on your aching limbs and he loosens his grip. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he says, leaning back, but still leaning, hovering over you. You pant up at him, wild-eyed and needy. You writhe beneath his weight, wanting friction, pleasure, something, anything! Because the ache is coming back, the pain of being 23 and spending your days constantly flinging yourself at water as unforgiving as a brick wall. He lets go of your shoulders, bracing himself over you with hands planted on either side of your head, his hips starting a slow careful rocking motion against yours. You stare up at him, watching his flushed face, the dark growth perpetually shading his jaw, his eyes dark with want. 

“Please,” you whisper, arms coming up around him, hands tracing the graceful curve of his long back. You think for a moment that if you had any artistic talent, you could easily render the lines of his body with charcoal or pencil, paint or clay. They’re almost more familiar than your own. “Nick,” you sigh, arching up to press your mouth to his. He stills against you. This is new. Foreign territory. You’ve never kissed him before. He’s shocked, unsure how to respond. Your tongue flickers out, tracing over the full bottom lip of his mouth, tasting him there for the first time. 

He lets out a choked sigh, opening to you, tongue reaching out to welcome yours inside. 

You groan, sucking at his mouth, his lips, the sleek wet muscle of his tongue, one hand gripping the back of his neck to tug him down closer, the other curving around his waist to pull his hips into better contact with yours. He makes a broken sound into your mouth and his hips stutter back into motion, his cock long and hot, and hard where it presses to yours. Your thighs answer by falling open. He settles into the V of your legs, and all you can do is squirm against him, pushing back with equal gusto. 

“Dave,” he whispers, breaking the kiss. He presses his forehead to your temple, lips grazing across your cheekbone, and you suck in gulps of air, hips still pumping against his in perfect counterpart. “Let me,” he pleads, and you know what he’s asking. He wants what he had before, what you let him take and take and take. And all you want is to say yes. So you do. 

“Yes.” 

He flings himself half off the bed to reach for his bag, dropped carelessly in the middle of the floor, and you stare blindly up at the too white ceiling of your dorm room while he rummages through a side pocket. You fear briefly that your brain will kick in before he finds what he’s looking for. That your conscience will flare back to life, making you stop this. But he’s back to quickly for the thought to do more than barely register. It disappears completely as soon as his skin touches yours. 

You touch Nick all the time. Hugs, pats on the back, playful shoves or bumps of shoulders. He’s one of your best friends in the world. Your greatest competition and your synchro partner all at the same time. Touching him, being touched by him, is not foreign. But some part of your mind screams it should be. That you shouldn’t know this feeling, of his thighs between yours, of his hands on your hips, repositioning them, of his fingers sliding along the curve of your ass, pressing inside. So deep inside. You cry out, head falling back at the familiar/foreign/hurt/pleasure of this touch. He’s the only man to ever do this to you, to ever know you this way, and somehow it seems fitting that it’s him. The guy you won your first ever Olympic medal with. The first person you went to in order to celebrate winning the second. Winning gold. It was Nick, not your coach, or your mother, not the girl you plan to marry, but Nick who you wanted. Who you sought out. 

He presses his fingers, three, (when had he added the second? the third?) deeper finding your prostate and you arch up against him so hard you feel your spine pop. He chuckles, teeth scratching across the scruff starting to form on your chin, and you retake his mouth before he can laugh out right. Your nails rake across his shoulders and he shudders against you, his hips snapping once hard against yours. The fast brutal press of his pelvis to yours makes you break the kiss to avoid biting his tongue. He pulls back, eyes studying your face carefully, and you hear the tear of a wrapper, the snap of latex. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He’s already asked and gotten the ok. He won’t give you the opportunity to reconsider, to change your mind. Not now. Instead his hands go to your knees, pulling them out and up, holding you open like it’s nothing, your natural flexibility making it easy to get you positioned just right. His eyes never leave yours, keeping you focused, not letting you hide away, as he presses inside. 

It burns, this entry. It aches in a different and delicious way. But oh it’s good. It’s so good, and your jaw drops open with the feeling flooding through you. He’s done this before. You weren’t the first, or the last, but that doesn’t bother you. It never has. He knows what he’s doing, which is necessary because you have no idea. Have never had any idea. Just this burning want, and the trust that he could make it go away, dampen it down, so that you could get up and walk around like a normal person for a little while, keep on surviving.

An image of a vampire fills your mind. A Succubus? An Incubus? You’re not sure which is which, memorization of mythological creatures never having been an interest of yours. But the image is fitting. This is what you crave, what you fight against having every single day, this desire, this need. You’re like a crack addict, and he’s your ultimate fix, giving you just enough relief to let you survive until the next time. But you push that thought away. It’s counterproductive. Instead you let your body do as it pleases. 

It’s a strange feeling, this letting go. You spend hour after hour, day after day, curbing your body’s natural instincts, tucking it up when it wants to spread wide, straightening arms and legs and hips and toes when they want so desperately to bend and curl, and flex. Instead of pushing to be firmer, tenser, tighter, you let yourself do the opposite. You go pliant, and soft, and relaxed. Nick sinks further inside of you, hips pressed tightly to your ass, arms tightening around your knees, his clenched jaw twitching and his eyes fluttering closed. He moans, voice low, and deep, and pleased. 

“David,” he whispers, eyes sliding slowly open. They catch yours and you can’t look away. He’s so beautiful just then and you feel the undeniable urge to touch. You pry one hand free of the comforter where it’s been knotted for who knows how long and slide it up the long length of his arm to his shoulder, tracing the line of each muscle, naming them in your head, old human anatomy terms floating through your mind like a dream. The hair at the back of his head is thick and dark, and you let your fingers slip through it without a second thought. 

His hips pull away, and you clench around him, your body fighting to keep him inside of you. But his hips are stronger, determined. They’re back a beat later, pressing his erection back inside of you, sliding home like he’s never left. Your body welcomes him like he belongs and in that moment you wonder how anyone could ever consider this wrong. How? When it feels so perfectly right? 

He pushes deep again, hips cradled by yours, hairy thighs sliding scratchy and rough against the naturally smooth skin of your own. He grunts as his body crashes against yours, the force of it folding you a fraction further in half. 

If you stopped to think about it, and you never had, because let’s face it this wasn’t really the time to do so, it makes perfect sense that it was always so good between you. You spent hours, days, weeks, trying to synch his body with yours, his rhythm and tempo, and beat to yours. You counted, and hopped, and rocked, and dove every time you saw each other, determined to make your bodies fly through the air and into the water as perfectly as possible. So when his hips dive into yours, is it really any wonder that yours respond instantly to the action, surging up to meet his in perfect counter motion. This has always been like this between you, even that first night.

Together your bodies roll and flex, bow, and curve. He pounds inside of you and your body takes it without issue, or complaint. With his dick bumping across your prostate, his abs grinding and sliding across your dick, nothing hurts and everything is just right. 

Orgasm approaches quickly, his body knows yours too well, and you’re both so full of adrenaline and need, it can’t take long. Soon you’re both nearing the edge, and you find yourself tugging at his hair, yanking until his head comes up, his mouth sliding hot and wet across yours. And then you come, clenching around him. 

You’re so many things in that moment. You feel infinite. Endless. You’re more than son, brother, teammate. You’re more than diver, champion, Olympic gold medalist, and wow that last one still makes you feel giddy inside. You’re everything and nothing all clashing together in an orgasm that seems like it can’t possibly end, but can’t go on forever. Your mouth breaks away as you shout, your voice going hoarse with use, arms tightening around Nick’s body as he cries out too, his face ducking down to bury itself in your shoulder. He always does that, hides his face when he comes, like it feels so good he wants to hoard it away, share it with no one else, not even you. Nick huffs weakly into the hollow of your throat, lips sliding across the sweaty skin there, and you rock your hips lazily against his, his softening erection still inside of you. You want this moment to last forever, because as soon as he pulls away, it will be done, and who knows when this dangerous/exciting/forbidden thing will happen again? You’ll go back to being the other David. The scared, mortified resolute David. The one who would never dream of doing such a thing. 

Not ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read through n113z. :D


End file.
